


beneath the gates of gondolin

by RaisingCaiin



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Former Lovers - Freeform, Gen, Gondolin, Homecoming, M/M, Requited Unrequited Love, hints of trauma from Voronwe's voyages
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-06
Updated: 2019-02-06
Packaged: 2019-10-23 07:13:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17678870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RaisingCaiin/pseuds/RaisingCaiin
Summary: It feels almost like a dream, standing once more at the foot of the cliffs and looking up, up, up at the soaring white walls of Gondolin. Voronwë can feel his heart thundering in his chest, the blood roiling in his veins, the soles of his feet itching with the desire to turn and walk, stride, run as far away from this place as he can possibly go. For he has not seen the walls of Gondolin in nearly eight years – seven spent at sea, seeking a way into the West, and then one more spent wrecked, slowly crumbling into the sand outside Vinyamar.And for eight years, he has not seen the one whom he left here either.





	beneath the gates of gondolin

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Cephaliarch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cephaliarch/gifts).



> For Cephaliarch, who requested a romance or angsty story of some kind set during the events of the Silmarillion. I - kinda tried to do both the romance and the angst parts of the request? Hope you enjoy!

It feels almost like a dream, standing once more at the foot of the cliffs and looking up, up, up at the soaring white walls of Gondolin. Voronwë can feel his heart thundering in his chest, the blood roiling in his veins, the soles of his feet itching with the desire to turn and walk, stride, _run_ as far away from this place as he can possibly go. He has not seen the walls of Gondolin in nearly eight years – seven spent at sea, seeking a way into the West, and then one more spent wrecked, slowly crumbling into the sand outside Vinyamar – and he . . .

 He had never thought that he would return to this, his former home, ever again.

 For if Gondolin _was_ his home, then that is precisely the truth that Voronwë feels in his bones as he regards her walls with new eyes: seeing them now for the bleached white, the bone white, that they are, and likely that they always have been. For Gondolin _was_ home, in a time and a place that Voronwë has been cast from for good; Gondolin _was_ home, back when _home_ meant cramped quarters that didn’t rock with every wave, and candles that could be left to burn without fear of fire, and a bunk shared not because space was scarce but because Voronwë couldn’t imagine a night away from the warmth of his lover’s arms, whispering into Elemmakil’s chest _don’t tell me the watch is already changing, I need you to stay with me awhile longer!_

 But no matter what Voronwë thought that he could or couldn’t do, back when he was washed up on the shores of Nevrast a broken man, now he has been bid return to Gondolin. This evening he has arrived at one of the secret gates into the city that was once his home, trailed close and quiet by the man whom Ulmo, Lord of Waters, had appointed to be his herald. This man, Tuor, has said little of what he heralds for Gondolin or why, but his face is nearly as drawn with the pains of the past as is Voronwë’s own, and that is reason enough not to press him overmuch.

 The two of them must make a pretty picture, trudging up to the secret side gate like this, Voronwë muses, a touch of bitterness coloring the thought. Two hunched creatures so tossed about by the denizens of the sea that even the dirt and the frost of their recent travels cannot quite hide their scars. 

 Perhaps Ulmo, Lord of Waters, hears this complaint. Or perhaps Voronwë is simply as unlucky now, returned to land, as he had been upon the waves. But whatever the reason, his heart is tested once more as he steps forward into that weak and watery evening light, and is bid to _halt, in the name of Turukáno the king_!

 Voronwë knows that voice, and indeed, it matters not how many cruel years have passed or how many horrors have taken up their abode in his heart since last he heard it. He still would know it anywhere.

 Elemmakil. _Elemmakil_. That alert figure backlit against the mouth of the gate, with the silver of Ecthelion’s house shining even in this somber sunset and the proud plume of Gondolin fluttering free in this wild wind. . .

 “Strangers are not welcome here!” the figure who must be Elemmakil calls. “Move along, now!”

  _And am I a stranger to you?_ Voronwë wants to call to him. But he does not, and holds his peace instead.

 “We are not welcome in Gondolin?” Tuor asks quietly, from his place at Voronwë’s back.

 “Hush, now,” Voronwë tells him absently. “He will hear, soon enough, that you have been made herald of the Lord of Waters and then you will be granted admittance into the city. But let me be the one who speaks with him.”

  _You will be granted admittance:_ that is, Tuor will. For there are rules about entering the bleached-bone walls of fair Gondolin, and even stricter rules about bringing in strangers, and even if Tuor is Ulmo’s herald, well. . .

 Some rules are not made to be broken. And Voronwë knows this well, even as his eyes cannot be drawn away from that proud head, that helm of shining silver and its plume of gleaming gold.

 “You will not be warned again!” the figure that is Elemmakil calls, his tone turned cold and stern, and though he is only armed with spear and shield, Voronwë knows that his arm is strong, his aim is true: he is well capable of casting his weapon even this far.

 There can be no more shirking from this. No more hiding from him. So, gesturing for Tuor to remain behind a moment, Voronwë steps forward among the rocks.

 One step at a time, Mariner. Just one, then another, then another, and already you are nearly there, eh?

 The figure that is Elemmakil must call some further warning, but the blood and the wind together roar like sea-devils in Voronwë’s ears, and if there _are_ any words than he cannot quite make them out. And then Elemmakil’s spear has flown, planting its point neatly between his legs, and Voronwë cannot keep from smiling, soft and half-mad, as he steps around that spear, pulls it free, and carries it slung low to his side as he walks on.

 Perhaps it is this movement of recovering Elemmakil’s weapon, fluid and familiar from a hundred mock-fights and trainings together. Or perhaps it is that the distance between them has finally elapsed enough that Elemmakil can see what remains familiar of Voronwë’s face, beneath the ravages of sea and sun and storm. But whatever prompts it, Voronwë can _hear_ Elemmakil recognizing him. Can all but _feel_ that shiver of breath indrawn, that quiver of breath blown out, and the whispered “Voronwë?” that the playful wind blows right against his ears.

 But before he even need muster a response, the rocks are crossed and the secret gate of Gondolin reached, and Elemmakil – for of course it is he, even the worst of sea-blasts could not damage Voronwë’s ears beyond knowing that strong voice – is reaching out.

 But not for his spear. Instead, for its new bearer.

 Voronwë is gathered into arms as strong as the sea that nearly swallowed him, or stronger; held close against chain and plate as steadfast as the rocks to which he had been dashed, or more steadfast still. Elemmakil’s heartbeat is obscured from him by the panoply of Ecthelion’s house, but Voronwë knows that it must be there beneath the armor, for Elemmakil himself is; and the golden plume of Gondolin that decorates Elemmakil’s helm tickles his cheek as Elemmakil clasps him close.

 “No stranger are _you_ ,” Elemmakil whispers against the top of his head, every breath stirring brine-bleached hair. “No stranger to this city, and no stranger to me. Voronwë, mine own Voronwë, come home safe and hale at long, long last!”

 It is hard, so hard, for Voronwë to tug himself away from this unexpected but oh-most-welcome grip; hard, so hard, to feel Elemmakil letting him go, and to hear his wondering noise at Voronwë’s continued silence . And it is hard, so hard, for Voronwë to step back and look up at him, the one whom Voronwë has loved – nay, whom he loves _yet_ – and to tell him: “I am not alone, captain. I have guided another to the city of Gondolin.”

 Elemmakil’s brow wrinkles at the unexpected formality. “Your fellow seamen are no strangers, Voronwë! Neither they nor you are subject to the penalties of bringing outsiders to our gates!”

 Voronwë says nothing, but offers Elemmakil back his spear. Elemmakil looks from his face to the weapon, his own features caught up in a storm of concern so true and old affection so sweet that Voronwe can all but taste them even on the bitter wind. He proffers the spear again, with a tiny shake to prompt his former lover’s notice, and when Elemmakil has finally taken it, steps back again and calls to the Man whom he has guided to this forbidden city.

“Tuor, son of Huor: be made welcome to Gondolin!”

And Tuor, thinking this his cue, steps forward, striding across the rocks with a gait that Elemmakil will not know and a form that Elemmakil will not recognize.

And indeed, watching this complete stranger come forward, Elemmakil’s features begin to come alight with a terrible understanding. “Voronwë. You have shown an outsider the way to Gondolin?”  

Voronwë cannot bear to meet his eyes. He is not ashamed of guiding Tuor: he is only sorry, so so sorry, for the predicament that he has now thrust upon Elemmakil. “I have.”

“He has been my guide this past winter,” Tuor confirms, his hand descending heavy as fate upon Voronwë’s shoulder. “I would never have found this place without him.”

“Why?” Elemmakil whispers.

Tuor misunderstands the question to be his own. “Ulmo, Lord of Waters, has appointed me his herald and given me a message for the king of this fair city.”

“Yes, well, that is not upon me to judge, but my lord Ecthelion of the Great Gate.” Elemmakil sounds like he is barely even listening: instead, Voronwë can _feel_ his former lover’s eyes hot and heavy upon himself.  “Voronwë, is this true? You could have sent him on ahead, to come upon the gates alone!”

Tuor makes an inquiring noise, obviously still unsure of what has happened here, but Voronwë knows immediately what Elemmakil is saying.

“And if he had come along alone, would he not have been killed within sight of the walls before he could even speak his errand?” Voronwë’s voice sounds low and wretched even to his own ears. “Ulmo sent me with him to ensure he reached Gondolin, but also so that he might gain admittance to the city.”

There is now a stir of movement from the gate behind Elemmakil, and another guard’s voice rises as he takes in the sight of a stranger at their very doorstep. Elemmakil moans, mute, as that voice is joined by many more: now witnessed by this number, the tale will not be contained. Even now, someone is sure to have been sent running along to the Tower of the King with the news of a Man at the gates of the Hidden City.

“What is it, Voronwë?” Tuor finally asks when neither of the Eldar before him speak again. “Surely it is good that I am here safe, with my message intact?”

“It is nothing, a silly custom,” Voronwë says, already feeling at a distance from his own body as he tries to soothe the Man, but Elemmakil regains his voice in time to cut in: “Voronwë, you know the laws as well as do I. Your – your life is forfeit, for bringing a stranger to Gondolin’s walls.”

“What?” Tuor cries, his voice echoing across the rocks, and behind Elemmakil the gate swings open as three more guards come to join this little tableau.

“It is so,” Voronwë whispers. “For such is the mercy of the Lord of Waters, my friend!”

Arms that are not Elemmakil’s seize him, and metal that is not of Elemmakil’s armor bites into his wrists, securing them behind his back. A voice that is not Elemmakil’s cries harshly: “What are we to do with them, captain?”

When finally Voronwë looks up, Elemmakil is gazing at him, utterly stricken, and even eight years later, his eyes are still bluer than the calmest sea or the furthest horizon that Voronwë has ever known.

“The Man is here for your salvation,” Voronwë whispers, even as he is roughly handled. “Please, captain” – _not Elemmakil and not Elem’, not before his men, he had a reputation to maintain, Voronwë!_ –  “take him before the lord Ecthelion and hear his testimony if you must, but give him a chance to speak and show the lords those signs that were give him by the Lord of Waters!”

But Voronwë says nothing of himself. For there is nothing to be said of himself, or what he has done in leading Tuor here. By the greatest laws of Gondolin, he is already guilty.

“Take the Man within,” Elemmakil finally orders his man, as harsh as the other had been a moment before. And his guards obey with alacrity, hustling Tuor within the secret gate of Gondolin: the Man has not even the time to look back at Voronwë in concern before he is out of sight within the shadows of these bleached-bone walls.

This leaves only Voronwë, the guard holding him, and Elemmakil, who orders the other: “You too. Go within.”

“Captain?” The guard’s grip remains tight just above the restraints upon Voronwë’s wrists.

"You heard me,” Elemmakil repeats, his voice nearly a snarl now. “You all saw that I was the one who intercepted him and the stranger, so you know as well that it is upon me to carry out the sentence demanded by our laws _. Go. Within_.”

 By the look upon his face, the guard yet has his doubts, but the slaying of one Elda by another is no small thing, even beneath penalty of law, and he must decide that he does not want to face so dark a deed. Dropping Voronwë’s wrists, he retreats back within the gate, and as his footsteps too die away upon the rocks, then it is only Voronwë and Elemmakil.

 Elemmakil, who immediately drops the spear and hurries to Voronwë’s side, swearing as creatively and profusely as a sailor himself as he unhooks from his belt another small ring of keys, which he begins trying on the restraints at Voronwë’s wrists. Elemmakil, who if Ulmo or the Moringotto or hells even Eru himself had mercy, would not have been the one upon duty at the gate this evening and thus tasked with this horrible, horrible task.

 Voronwë’s hands are quickly freed and he brings them back before his body, rubbing each of his wrists with a small hiss. They hurt, but not for much longer, surely, and it was good of Elemmakil to unchain him, to let him face his last moments this side of the Sea in nominal freedom.

 “I am sorry that had to be you who was here at the gate,” he murmurs, as Elemmakil comes round to face him again. Elemmakil is muttering fiercely beneath his breath, his brow furrowed with some wild concern, so Voronwë reaches out to take his hands.  “Please understand, it is good to have seen you one last time, and I only wish that it need not have been you who was made to do this. I do not – I have never wanted you to worry because of me.”

 Because, Voronwë finds, actually he does not mind that his end will be at his former lover’s hands. This will be better, so much better, than anything he would have suffered in a shipwreck, or when dragged beneath the waves by Ossë, or if dashed upon the holy reefs that guard the West from unclean hearts and eyes. Even if – _when_ – this will be painful, at least there will be a reason. At least he is close to Elemmakil again.

 “Whatever nonsense you are imagining, you can stop it right now,” Elemmakil says distractedly, squeezing his hands briefly before letting go and stooping to pick up his spear. “Hush, now, and _run_.”

  _What_?

 Voronwë looks from his now empty, unchained hands over to Elemmakil. “What?”

 Elemmakil shakes his head fondly and gestures at him slightly impatiently when he sees Voronwë still looking, not moving. “Come, come, you’ll have to be quick. I won’t be able to hold them off forever!”

 This is too much, this is all too much. Everything of the past eight years since leaving Elemmakil and the life they’d made here in Gondolin for what should have been a brief voyage Westward, has all been too much to make sense of: the wind whistles down his ears again, bringing with it a song of the sea that almost devoured him, and suddenly Voronwë can hardly understand where he is now or what is becoming of himself. “Elem’, what do you mean by this?”

 “I mean that you are going to _run_ ,” Elemmakil whispers fiercely, moving once more so that he now stands between Voronwë and the gate, which is mercifully unattended yet. “I will make my excuses here, but you must _go,_ Voronwë!”

 It feels like the sea is battering him to pieces all over again. “But – the law?” 

Elemmakil laughs, low and choked in the pit of his throat. “If you think that I would not stand between you and the law, dear one, than these past eight years have been worse to you than I have thought. You will not die here today; indeed, if I could have my say, then you would never die at all. Now. Stop trading semantics with me and _go_!”

 It finally, finally dawns on Voronwë that Elemmakil means for him to leave. That is, to leave Elemmakil, here alone and facing the strictures of the guards who now they can both hear returning back up the passageway leading from the city to this hidden gate. And, just – no.

 Instead, Voronwë steps forward to join his former lover rather than stand behind him. And as Elemmakil looks to him in surprise, Voronwë simply lets his eyes drift shut and his head fall so that his cheek is laid against a strong and sore-missed shoulder.

 Against all reason, against every tide, he has found his way home – home to Gondolin, and more importantly, home to this man. Let what may come for him, come for him, for Voronwë does not intend to leave Elemmakil ever again.


End file.
